by Angela Arney
The rest of the family, too, clustered around James. He grew up permanently chuckling, a happy, contented child. There was always someone on hand to amuse him.
‘That child has brought a kind of bloom to the whole Hamilton-Howard family,’ said Donald Ramsay. ‘Liana is happier now than she has ever been, and closer to Eleanora, too.’
‘Yes, it’s slightly disturbing,’ said Dorothy.
‘Disturbing?’ Sometimes his wife came out with the strangest things. After thirty odd years of marriage she could still surprise him.
It was mid-November, time to make a Christmas cake again, and Dorothy was mixing the heavy sticky mass in the enormous mixing bowl she kept for that one purpose. She gasped with the effort and, grasping the wooden spoon with both hands, gave a determined stir then rested, leaning on the spoon. ‘Yes, disturbing,’ she repeated slowly. ‘The whole family’s happiness revolves around James. Liana and Eleanora’s new relationship depends on James. What would they do if something happened to him?’
Donald snorted with annoyance. ‘What is likely to happen, I ask you?’ Yet behind his words was a shadowy doubt. What would they do? ‘We have immunization for all the childhood diseases now,’ he said as much to reassure himself as Dorothy. ‘Those were what snatched away the youngsters in days gone by. But no more. No more.’ He lit a cigarette and puffed at it furiously.
‘You are right, of course,’ said Dorothy, emptying the mixture into a baking tin. ‘I was being silly.’ She put the tin into the oven and carefully closed the door. ‘It’s just that he is such a precious child,’ she said softly. ‘I suppose the truth is I envy them.’
Donald was at her side in an instant. He saw the unshed tears before she could blink them away. He put his arms tenderly around her. ‘You are grieving for all those children we never had,’ he said.
‘Yes.’ Dorothy sighed. ‘I suppose that’s it.’
*
Liana kept her word made the year before, and all the family, including James, went to Winchester Cathedral on Christmas Eve 1962 for Evensong and the Blessing of the Crib. The service held at five-thirty was especially for children and was not long. Even so, some of the children were restive. But not James. His brilliant blue eyes sparkled with lively interest as he sat on Liana’s lap. She was glad she had come. Not that the religious part of the service held any meaning for her, she had not changed her views on that one iota. Long ago she had learned the hard way that life was what you made of it. God, a mystical figure invented by men for men, contributed nothing.
Seated up by the high altar, Liana looked down the long nave of the cathedral. It was easy to believe in a God on High in the presence of such stupendous beauty: the soaring columns to the vaulted roof, ringing now with the sweet pure voices of the choirboys dressed in red gowns with snow-white frilled collars beneath young innocent faces, each one illuminated by the candle before him; the intricately carved wooden choir stalls, all loving works of art carved by long-dead craftsmen; and then beyond, more carving in wood and stone. A vast treasure house of architectural and ecclesiastical glory, dedicated by man to God for nearly one thousand years: the main nave, dimly lit now, so that the glory of the Christmas tree, standing beneath the great West window ablaze with a thousand white lights, could light the way; the spirit of Christmas, the light of the world.
Yes, it was easy to see how men and women deluded themselves. Such beauty was seductive, beguiling. But Liana was not persuaded. She held James close and tried not to remember the time when she, too, had believed and had prayed. But the memories were not to be denied. The red glow of the sanctuary lamp flickered in her mind’s eye, and before the statue of the Virgin she could see two girls kneeling, heads bowed, minds locked in prayer, prayers that had been tossed back in their faces, for one was to die a slow and painful death, the other to live in the hideous underworld of prostitution. Then there was Raul. He had come to her without the help of prayers or God, and then he had gone. Liana glanced at Eleanora sitting beside her, now as tall as herself. If a God did exist, he would not have left her alone and pregnant in a hostile world. It was no thanks to God that she had found a father for Eleanora and brought herself and her child to England and a new life.
When the congregation stood and faced the high altar to recite the Apostles’ Creed, Eleanora noticed that her mother was silent, her mouth firmly shut in a thin, determined line.
*
They drove back from Winchester through a black, white and silver landscape. It had been very cold for weeks and was now freezing hard. The moon shone from a clear black sky, and already a hoary frost sparkled from every blade of grass and gave every twisted tree the beauty and delicacy of a ballet dancer.
‘A magic night,’ sighed Eleanora happily. She had James now. He was asleep on her lap, his blond head lolling with the movement of the car.
She turned and smiled at Peter, who had been given permission to attend the service with them. He smiled back and squeezed her arm. Eleanora was eighteen now, and after Christmas, on New Year’s Eve, they intended to announce their engagement. Eleanora had wanted to surprise everyone with the announcement, but had given in to Peter’s demands that he should ask her father first. A compromise had been reached. Nicholas would be approached just before the New Year’s Eve party, he would be in a good mood and certain to say yes.
They were back at Broadacres just after six thirty in the evening. Bruno had lit a fire in the enormous Carrara marble fireplace in the East Gallery. Not that it was really necessary as nowadays the whole house was warm, thanks to the strategically placed log-burning stoves, supplemented by discreet oil-fired central heating; but the flickering flames gave a cosy glow to the Gallery and enhanced the fairy-lights on the Christmas tree.
It had been a tradition ever since Nicholas had returned from the war for the family and staff from the house and the estate to gather together in the East Gallery on Christmas Eve. Meg had prepared plates of hot mince pies and her own special recipe of traditional Christmas bread, which was golden crusted and spiced with cinnamon. There were melt-in-the-mouth sausage rolls, bowls of hot steaming punch and plenty of sherry.
Nicholas had also revived the old tradition of the yule-log, and now Bruno handed him it. It was ash, which was quick burning; to ensure that it did not smoulder and go out, it had been carefully dried in the barn for the past year. Nicholas placed it in the centre of the hearth, and as the housekeeper, Meg ceremoniously threw on a crust of stale bread. As the ash and the bread flared up in flames, glasses were raised in toast.
‘We shall have warmth and bread the whole year long,’ said Mary Pragnell as she helped Meg pile up fragrant prunings from the apple and cherry-tree wood around the yule-log.
‘Superstitious nonsense,’ answered Meg, then grinned at her mother’s disgruntled expression, ‘but a nice tradition just the same.’
‘’Tis more than a tradition,’ said Mary firmly. Her roots were buried deep in the yeoman ancestry of the countryside. Superstition was part and parcel of her life, and neither Meg nor modern-day life would ever budge it.
The chatter and laughter rose several decibels as glass after glass of punch and sherry rapidly disappeared down the company’s throats and the piles of food began to diminish.
Nicholas and Liana worked their way round, talking to everyone, careful not to miss a single employee. James was with Eleanora, playing on the floor. She let him rummage through the packages under the Christmas tree. Excited, he held them up, shaking them, his tiny fingers trying to prise off the wrappings before Eleanora deftly removed them.
‘Time for bed now, darling,’ Eleanora said as James, flushed and by now over-tired, began to whimper. ‘Can Peter and I take him up, Mummy?’
‘Of course.’ Liana kissed James. ‘I’ll be up in a moment to settle him down.’
Peter and Eleanora bore James off upstairs to his nursery as Liana and Nicholas continued circulating with their guests.
‘This is what I missed most in New Z
ealand,’ said Anne to her mother. She and Lady Margaret were standing with Richard watching the merry party. ‘I could never get used to Christmas in midsummer.’
Richard laughed. ‘Yes midsummer, and we all sent Christmas cards with snow scenes on them. I must admit, even though I am a New Zealander, that this is my idea of the way Christmas should be: the smell of burning wood from an open fire; the scent of pine needles from the Christmas tree; hot punch with cinnamon; and a cold and frosty night outside.’ He looked out of the window. ‘It’s snowing. This year we shall have a white Christmas.’
Anne and Margaret pressed their faces to the window pane. The East Gallery windows looked out on to the gravel forecourt in front of the house, and from the light of the lanterns either side of the front entrance it was possible to see the huge soft flakes of snow swirling down from a now pitch-black sky. The moon had disappeared behind the snow clouds. Margaret pressed her face closer. She could just make out the dark shapes of the clipped box hedge of the formal gardens and the fountain. Beyond that was the large stone arch which led out on to the main road. The snow was falling heavily, settling quickly on the ground, which was iron hard after a week of frost. A white Christmas! Margaret smiled. How lovely. She turned away from the window back into the room. As she did so she thought she saw a movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned back, pressing her face closer to the pane, straining her eyes. She had not been mistaken. There was a movement beneath the arch. As she watched, a figure emerged and began to walk through the snow towards the lighted front entrance.
‘Someone is coming,’ Margaret said, her breath misting up the window as she spoke.
Anne peered with her, rubbing a hole in the condensation in order to see through the glass more clearly.
‘My God, it’s William,’ she said.
Chapter Twenty-Three
By the time James was bathed and ready for bed, which took a considerable time as it involved launching a fleet the size of the British Navy into the bath, more than an hour had passed. Not that Peter or Eleanora noticed at first. They, too, were absorbed with mock sea battles, accompanied by much laughter and splashing. However, eventually and with great reluctance, James was persuaded to leave the bath and be ensconced in his cot. He sat there, pink, shining and smelling sweetly of baby powder. It was then that they realized it was very late.
‘Heavens, it’s over an hour since we left the East Gallery!’ said Peter checking his watch. ‘I wonder where on earth your mother is?’
‘Still talking, I expect,’ said Eleanora. ‘I’ll get her.’
She left the nursery, careering down the long corridor at her usual breakneck speed. Peter watching her departure grinned; how on earth the sculptures and priceless oriental vases which lined every corridor in the house survived, he did not know. Eleanora took a short cut down the back stairs towards the East Gallery which passed the room used by her father as a study. As she passed she was surprised to see the door half open and to hear her father’s voice. Curious, she stopped. It was obvious he was speaking on the telephone.
‘I see, thank you,’ he said. There was an ominous tension in his voice which froze Eleanora to the spot. She heard the click as he put down the receiver. Then there was a long silence. I ought to go, thought Eleanora, but she did not. She stayed where she was and heard her father clear his throat. He sounded distressed, as if it were difficult to speak. ‘Apparently he was discharged from hospital some months ago. Doctor Solly understood he was coming straight here, but I suppose he must have changed his mind and gone somewhere else first. But now, obviously, he has decided to come back to Broadacres.’
‘What shall we do?’ It was her grandmother’s whispered voice.
‘There is nothing we can do, dammit. We can’t tell him to leave. This is his home after all, and he has nowhere else to go. Whether we like it or not, Mother, this is where he has to be, at least for the time being.’ Nicholas sighed. Eleanora worried. Why did her father sound so strangely sad and defeated?
‘Yes, yes, I suppose so.’ Her grandmother’s voice was the same – agitated and worried. ‘Of course, I know you are right, but I do worry so. Anne doesn’t like him, will never like him, and Liana surely must wonder about him. Does she know where he went after . . .?’
Like Nicholas, Margaret was torn in two, half of her wanting to accept her son, give him succour and shelter, the other half wanting to reject him, not wanting to admit, even to herself, that she was still afraid of him, afraid of what he might do.
‘Liana knows nothing. She has never asked because, like Anne, she doesn’t much like him either and wasn’t sorry to see him go. But it is Christmas, so we must try and make him feel welcome. All of us. The spirit of goodwill ought to prevail, don’t you think? Don’t worry about Liana. I’ll persuade her that he must stay, for Christmas at least, and then we’ll sort out something afterwards. And you must persuade Anne. Anyway,’ Nicholas’s voice rose in an obvious attempt at cheerfulness. ‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. We’ve got Doctor Solly’s word for it. He is perfectly well now. That’s official. So cheer up.’
Eleanora heard them move; they were coming towards the door. Quickly she slipped past and hurried on down the stairs. Who were they talking about? Why didn’t anyone like this mystery man? She wanted to find out. She arrived in the East Gallery to find the party guests had gone. Only Meg, Dolly and Mary Pragnell remained, collecting up the plates and dishes and loading empty glasses on to trays. Mary Pragnell was glowering, and even Meg and Dolly appeared to have mislaid their Christmas spirit.
Around the fireplace stood a small group, her mother, Anne and Richard Chapman, and a tall, blond, rather good-looking stranger. Eleanora could see at once that her mother and the Chapmans were tense; it was the way their shoulders were hunched and the brittleness of their smiles. The blond man, on the contrary, seemed perfectly relaxed. He was leaning with one elbow on the mantelpiece of the fireplace, a glass of wine in his hand.
At the sound of her feet on the polished pine flooring, they all turned towards her. It was then Eleanora knew who the unwelcome visitor was. It was her father’s brother, her Uncle William. She knew him at once; he was so like her father in appearance, and anyway she had seen photographs. What on earth was all the fuss about? She knew all about him. He had been ill for ages and had then gone to relatives in Scotland. He was the one who had been a pilot and got himself shot down in the battle of Britain. His history seemed rather glamorous to Eleanora; maybe her father was jealous! She did not wait to be introduced but went straight to the group around the fireplace.
‘Hello, I’m Eleanora, your niece. I don’t really remember you as I was only a baby when you left Broadacres. But I do know about you. You are William, the pilot, the one who got shot down and lost a leg.’ Impulsive to the core and never a girl to suffer from shyness, she flung her arms around his neck and gave him an affectionate kiss on the cheek.
William looked slightly startled at the enthusiastic greeting, so different from that of the rest of the family, then smiled warily. ‘Well, I must say the grown-up version of Eleanora is a great improvement on the baby I left behind,’ he said.
Eleanora laughed delightedly at the compliment. ‘I should hope so. Oh, speaking of babies, don’t forget James is still waiting for you, Mummy.’
Liana gasped and put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, dear, I had forgotten. He should have been asleep hours ago.’ She bolted down the Gallery towards the back stairs Eleanora had just emerged from.
‘James?’ queried William. He looked puzzled.
‘My baby brother,’ said Eleanora. She held out her hand. ‘Come on William – may I call you that? Let’s sit here by the fire. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do. I suppose my family have been rotten communicators; they must have been if you don’t know about James.’
‘You could say that,’ said William abruptly. He allowed Eleanora to lead him to a settee near the fire. ‘You’re not a bit like any of the Hamilton-Howard
s,’ he said, eyeing her dark beauty.
Eleanora laughed unself-consciously. She was used to people making that comment. ‘Wait until you see James; he more than makes up for me. He’s blond like you and Daddy, has the same features, too. But don’t be mistaken about me, I may not look like your side of the family, but I’ve inherited all the family characteristics. I’m not the tiniest bit like my mother. Do you know,’ she lowered her voice dramatically, ‘she doesn’t even like horses!’
William smiled slowly. ‘I seem to remember that,’ he said.
‘Do you ride?’
William shook his head. ‘I haven’t sat on a horse for years. But now I’m back, perhaps I will start again.’
‘As soon as it stops snowing,’ said Eleanora, ‘I’ll take you up on that. We’ll ride together. All the horses will be frantic for exercise. How long will you be staying?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said William.
‘Thank God for Eleanora,’ muttered Richard Chapman under his breath. Nicholas and Lady Margaret came down the stairs and into the Gallery, closely followed by Peter. ‘There are two unopened bottles of champagne here,’ Richard called, anxious to maintain and enhance the atmosphere of congeniality introduced by Eleanora. ‘Shall I open them?’
‘Of course,’ said Eleanora cheekily, grinning at her father’s startled expression. ‘We ought to be celebrating William’s return with something special, and champagne is just the thing. Much better than pench.’ Still holding William’s hand, she squeezed it unselfconsciously. ‘It’s nice to have a grown-up uncle,’ she said.
*
That William was absorbed with relative ease into the family circle on Christmas Eve was entirely due to Eleanora, ably aided and abetted by Peter who immediately sensed the frigid atmosphere. William helped, too, by seeming anxious to please. He was friendly and affable. From the stiff suspiciousness that greeted his arrival, gradually the family began to relax, one by one. Margaret and Nicholas were the first to unwind. It seemed to them that William really was different. Dr Solly had been right about William’s health. He was better.